Anagnorisis from a Requiem
by Phydothis
Summary: Harry Potter was supposed to be their savior. What they never expected was that Harry Potter never existed in the first place. When the hero's role is taken over by a seasoned assassin, how would the world react? Naruto X-over. HP/RB, Haku/Zab.
1. Prologue

Anagnorisis from a Requiem

**Summary:** Harry Potter was supposed to be their savior. What they never expected was that Harry Potter never existed in the first place. But how do Haku and Zabuza fit into the picture?

**Pairing: **HP/RB

**Rating:** T for now, but might get upped for later chapters.

**Note: **This is slash. In case the pairing didn't give it away. Feel free to leave if this bothers you, otherwise enjoy.

**Disclaimer: **If I owned either HP or Naruto, I think I would be able to afford faster internet access. As it is, I'm operating on something from the Mesozoic period which runs at about one page per hour. So, no, nothing here belongs to me except the random plot idea.

**Anagnorisis from a Requiem **

**PROLOGUE**

Death came quicker than he'd expected. It hurt a whole lot more than he expected, too, but at least shock hit before it became too unbearable. The inability to breathe was not something he expected to bother him quite as much as it did. From the moment the hand broke through his sternum and splintered his spine, simultaneously tearing portions of his lungs, he lost most of his senses, only conscious of his relief that Zabuza was alive, and the pain through the all-encompassing numbness.

Death, also, apparently took a lot longer than he thought. It wasn't inconceivable to assume that the moment he stopped breathing would be the moment his soul, or his life-force, or living chakra, or whatever, left his body, and thus leaving behind a corpse well on its way to decomposing. On the other hand, he knew the exact moment he stopped breathing, because everything immediately stopped hurting.

But there were no beams of light, no darkness encompassing him, no gods to welcome him to the beyond, or demons for that matter. There was just Kakashi and his eyes. It's ironic that the last thing he would ever see would be Kakashi's confused and horrified eyes.

He distantly heard Zabuza's voice, saying what, he couldn't be sure; he wasn't sure he was able to understand anything anymore. A swish of his master's cleaver, and he had the unpleasant experience of shifting pressure inside his chest cavity as the copy-cat ninja pushed them both out of the sword's way. More shifting pressure and a soft puckering sound as Kakashi pulled his arm out, and the blood from that area gave a few half hearted gushes in an effort to leave his body.

He was soaked by now, and would be more than uncomfortable had it not been for the numbness. He continued to stare, unblinking before a hand came over his eyes and forced them closed.

Again the battle ensued, but he was far away.

A sudden trauma to his head, and he knew he'd been kicked. For what, he couldn't comprehend. It wasn't like he posed much of a threat at present.

Things began to fade more rapidly.

Naruto's protests rang out over the silence. He defended the dead boy's existence. He gave far more meaning to that last act than the boy felt it deserved. He even called Zabuza heartless, said he should have cared more. But Naruto couldn't understand.

_But he did care, you foolish boy. He wanted me, which was more than anyone had ever done for this unworthy thing. He cared far more than anyone did. He cared._

The boy thought this, as everything faded to black, and he felt nothing else.

It was over.

Or so he thought, until the darkness suddenly became warmth, stifling warmth. Everything pressed down against him from all sides, and then he was moving.

A glare of light, a loss of the heat, and a breath of life.

And then Haku was gone.

**Author's Note: **Thanks for reading. Let me know what you think! Constructive criticism are greatly appreciated.


	2. Unusual Meetings

Mrs

**Summary:** Harry Potter was supposed to be their savior. What they never expected was that Harry Potter never existed in the first place. But how do Haku and Zabuza fit into the picture?

**Pairing: **HP/RB

**Rating:** T for now, but might get upped for later chapters.

**Note: **This is slash. In case the pairing didn't give it away. Feel free to leave if this bothers you, otherwise enjoy.

**Disclaimer: **If I owned either HP or Naruto, I think I would be able to afford faster internet access. As it is, I'm operating on something from the Croatian period which runs at about one page per hour. So, no, nothing here belongs to me except the random plot idea.

**Anagnorisis from a Requiem**

**Chapter 1: Unusual Meetings**

Mrs. Rosenberg had been teaching at Wellington Mills Primary School for over a decade now, and she could not remember there ever being a case which stumped her as much as this one little boy. For such a small creature, there were a terrible amount of stories that even had her a bit on the edge when she found out he was going to be joining her class this year. Oh, she knew there was always a problematic batch, but those she could handle. Teaching for as long as she had, she had thought that she'd seen enough, done enough, had enough done to _her_ that she could consider herself prepared and well versed in the art of dealing with children.

That was all before she met one Harry Potter.

Ever since she had seen the name on her roster, Mrs. Rosenberg had sought to prepare herself for a terrible ordeal. At least, that was the impression she had gotten from his previous instructors. How was she supposed to prepare when everyone she asked would not give her a straight answer?

So on the first day of school, Mrs. Rosenberg, despite all the preparation she had made, was thrown for a loop when she called attendance. At first glance, the class appeared typical. Everything seemed to be going as any other first day of a school term; the students bid farewell to their parents, lined up in haphazard rows, and after the welcoming speech, followed their teachers to their classes. Mrs. Rosenberg had peeked over her should a few times, trying to guess which one among them would be the infamous Potter. There were a few that stood out clearly as future menaces, but, again, nothing she hadn't seen before. So with an eased mind, the teacher headed toward class on a lighter note.

"Just exaggerations again." She huffed mentally. With nothing of interest to do in this suburban neighborhood other than gossip, what more could she expect?

Besides, she would find out which one of those boys would be the one after role call, and then she would take the proper precautions. She bit back a chuckle with difficulty as she watched the stream of little nervous faces glancing, or even blatantly staring, at her mountainous and no doubt imposing figure. No matter how long she had been at it, every new class seems to bring a new charm that never failed to warm her heart. But every year, each new student was a whole new personality to deal with, so once everyone had entered, she began to set a few tricks she'd learned over the years to learn a bit about them.

"Good morning! I am Mrs. Rosenberg, and I'm happy to welcome you all to a new school year. I'm looking forward to getting to know you and working together to make your fourth year a good one!" She began with her usual speech, "Let's start by getting seated. Please feel free to choose your own seat, however, you will be expected to stay in your chosen seating arrangement for the rest of the year. This is a privilege. If things start getting too rowdy, I _will_ move you."

She eyed a pair of boys whose heads were huddled together conspiratorially throughout her whole speech.

"Yes. Definitely moving some." She thought.

However, she sat back and let the students hustle about looking for their seats. She smiled benignly. It was always fun to see their personalities emerge during this little procedure.

Once the rumble of murmuring voices and scraping chairs died down, she made a quick mental note of where those she had marked as potential juvenile delinquents sat. Looking around with a particularly hard glance at the terrible talking duo who had chosen to sit next to each other in the farthest back row, she couldn't help but wonder, "Which one was Potter?"

There was nothing else to do now but to start the role call. She couldn't help but feel a sense of apprehension as she perused the list again and the name was so inconspicuously wedged in the middle. It was hardly noticeable at all if she hadn't been looking for it, and as unassuming as the name was, Mrs. Rosenberg would come to learn it had nothing on discretion in comparison with its owner.

Everything began with, "Arrington, Crystal."

A petite girl with short golden pigtails raised her hand, sitting straighter in her front row seat.

As the list continued and Mrs. Rosenberg finally found the names of two trouble makers in the back, "Freeman, Wilbert," and "Hedding, Oliver."

She mentally gave a shocked snort. She had gone through almost all her targeted students: Aelis, Dursley, Freeman, Griffon, Hedding, even Nieman, but Potter wasn't among them. She cast her gaze around the class again just to try and make a guess, but failing to do so, continued. Her heart quickened momentarily when she looked down and saw that the next name to be read.

"Potter, Harry."

There, she finally said it. She didn't know what she was expecting, but she was finally going to see him. Feeling distinctly foolish, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath to prepare herself before looking up to find him. And slowly she lifted her head… and slowly she opened her eyes… and slowly she scanned the room.

And then she saw the hand rise, and then the small face lifting to look at her, and the dark head with those enviable green eyes bore into her own.

And she blinked.

And blinked.

Her mind froze over with the spectacle before her. _That_ was him?! Never mind being Harry Potter! The fact that _that_ child was a boy in general was enough to shock her. The child she was looking sat in the far back in the table by the window. Long hair, much too long for decency among boys, hung messily to his shoulders, while large green eyes glanced up shyly every now and then, over a light blush glazing prettily on his soft cheeks. Oh, she had seen him earlier alright, it was just that she had not noticed this student was even a _he_! She just couldn't believe her eyes!

She had to make sure, there must have been a mistake of some sort. Although, how an eight year old could mistake their own name, she just couldn't fathom.

"Potter?"

He nodded.

"Harry Potter?"

He nodded again. She just stared unbelieving for another few moments. Surprisingly, the students all seemed to ignore her momentary lapse in mental function, or maybe not so surprising since it was likely they'd all had Potter in their class before, and a teacher suddenly freezing after meeting him was not an uncommon event. It took a few more seconds before she could clear her throat to continue, although not without sneaking several furtive looks at Potter.

As for the boy, he had grown too used to this kind of thing to really take much notice, and went back to looking out the window. Thinking it over, he knew he probably should listen to Uncle Vernon and go get a hair cut and, maybe correct a few of his mannerism while he was at it, but he simply was operating on force of habit now. Or maybe these weren't even habits, but just his own overactive imagination creating another world for himself, another life. However, if that were true, wouldn't it make more sense to imagine himself in a loving family instead of a life completely dedicated to a murderous mercenary? Or at least, couldn't he imagine a happier ending for himself? It wasn't the fact that he'd died. That was something he had expected to happen when his possibly imaginary self agreed to become such a dangerous man's tool. No, what was eating him inside was the fact that he didn't know what had become of his lord.

In retrospect, it was stupid of that version of him to throw himself in front of Lord Zabuza like that, but there was so little time to react, and he was quite prepared to end his life regardless. In any case, he'd already proven that he certainly didn't deserve Lord Zabuza any longer, so what was he thinking?

Maybe that was a previous life and that's why he had been cursed to lead his current life. Once again, even in his second chance, he had somehow inadvertently killed his parents and thus eradicated any chance of a happy childhood. Sure, at least this time roaming and starving on the streets were not part of the equation, but sleeping scrunched up in a cupboard under the stairs was just a few notches up. He couldn't decide whether being despised again by this family was better or worse. On one hand, they certainly didn't bother to fake affection and were almost religiously insistent on reminding him of exactly how unwanted he was. However, despite all of their complaints and unease, they kept him under their roof. Sure, there were small bouts of violence here and there, but it hardly ever led to injury. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had never thrown him out, never sought to permanently remove him from their lives in any way, which was a lot more than his father in his other life had ever tried to do for him.

Harry wasn't under any illusion that they held any suppressed affection for him, well maybe Dudley did in his own simple ways, but certainly not his aunt and uncle. So even though they were unkind in the general areas of daily life, he was eternally grateful for their single kind act of allowing him to live.

Although, he was slightly put off by their insistent lies about his origin; he hadn't even known why he evoked such scorn from them until almost a year ago.

It was on a rare outing with the Dursleys – rare because Uncle Vernon wasn't particularly fond of correcting strangers that it was, in fact, his nephew and not his daughter he was with, but due to the lack of babysitters, they had no choice but to take him along to do groceries. Uncle Vernon of course grumbled to Harry about stopping by the barbers on the way to the store, but no one made much comment since both knew Aunt Petunia would somehow steer the trip completely free of any barbers or hair salons and somehow conveniently forget about the whole deal on the way back. Both knew, though Vernon would never admit it, that Petunia took great pleasure in the attention since anything the slightest bit aesthetically pleasing in her possession was a direct reflection of her own accomplishment in making it so.

Even though it was Harry who kept the garden beautiful, who arranged the flower décor in the house, who kept the floors clean, these were all testaments to her success as a role model of the perfect housewife. In a sense, Aunt Petunia was pleased by Harry's presence more as an embellishment for her family image than as a child in her care. So much so that Vernon was sorely tempted to father another child in hopes of a siring daughter to deter her from this unhealthy habit. Then again, he was not blinded enough by pride to not notice the lack of attractive genes in their family pool. At least this way he wouldn't have to deal with the resentment of his wife if Harry did continue to look this…_feminine_ when he grew up, and would thus outshine any daughter conceived by his uncle.

That was why Uncle Vernon resolved to sit in the car again.

Harry understood the gist of his uncle's train of thought and thus was seized by random bouts of giggles on their trip to the grocers.

Dudley had long ago settled that Harry had been overtaken by the infectious cooties carried by girls and thus merely watched in morbid awe whenever his cousin was being particularly girl-ish. It was with this particular revelation that Dudley Dursley vowed his abstinence of girls in general.

Aunt Petunia, on the other hand, had been concise in her directions that Harry looked good in public if he was with them. His short stature made finding clothes that fit very difficult, so today he ended up wearing an old shirt of Dudley's that was a bit too long and too large by far when he'd received it but had tailored it to fit his stature; he hadn't bothered to shorten the length so the shirt now gave the impression of being a shirt dress rather than the button-down shirt it was before. At least he could honestly say the 'girl' look wasn't really intended this time around. He also was rather regretful that he wasn't allowed to wear Dudley's oversized pants today; at least those didn't sport a hideous array of colors at the hem.

His aunt decided long ago that he couldn't possibly look decent swimming in his pants and they didn't have the means to hem and adjust Dudley's jeans at home, so she had set out and bought the cheapest pants available that would fit him. Unfortunately, the only ones that fitted were those which appeared vaguely reminiscent of the American 70's hippie revolution. The pants were sitting on a sale rack at the back of the store. Considering they were on _sale_ in a _thrift_ store, that alone was a good indicator of the item's popularity. Every one of his instincts from his shinobi days screamed against the suicidal monstrosities before him, but his aunt had bought them regardless. Thus was the reason why he wore jeans adorned with a myriad of rose prints and colorful decor.

But Aunt Petunia did not stop there; his hair, too messy to be left alone, was now pulled up into embarrassing pigtails to display a very disgruntled forehead. Of all the things he hated most about his new life, it was the scar. It was too unusual, too easy to see, and simply too memorable to fit into his agenda of staying in the background. Then again, compared with his pants, maybe it was a few sequins short of being exuberantly glaring. Still, he hated showing his forehead.

So, despite enjoying Uncle Vernon's predicament very much, it was hardly amusing considering what his aunt had put him through. His solution was to use his cousin's enormous form as a shield until he found a chance to sidle into a decently uninhabited aisle. Dudley, being in a generous mood as he often was with Harry, made an effort to waddle a bit slower and stand a bit taller to encompass the smaller figure.

Harry whispered his thanks and even promised to cook Dudley's favorites for dinner before disappearing into the female sanitary care department.

Now that freedom was attained, Harry didn't know what to do. His aunt usually took her time when shopping for grocery, especially when accompanied by Dudley. It was the stuff of grocer's wet dreams: Dudley at the market.

He smiled at the thought and exited the store.

As he'd suspected, his uncle also left, this left him with approximately two and a half hours to run about. He'd been thinking of visiting the nearby bookstore for some anatomy books anyway; it seemed that the human bodies in this life operated differently than those of the people in Haku's life.

Harry has settled for calling his two selves by their respective name, which made things simpler for him to think. As he observed those around him, he became increasingly aware of the insufficient durability of the people in his world. It seemed that the things people of Haku's life thought of as simple everyday maneuvers were now things of the science fiction or fantasy entertainment.

Despite these inhibitors from his environment, Harry still worked secretly to regain the capabilities he'd had as Haku. He refused to be mediocre, refused to be average. If he had been so in the other life, Lord Zabuza would had never chosen him.

He didn't really know why he continued his research and training, but maybe it was the undying hope in his heart that he would someday find his way back to his master's side. Harry had realized long ago that there was no one else for him. Even if the possibility of having a loving relation were to arise in this world, he wasn't sure he would grasp it. There was really only the life of a tool for him. Zabuza wasn't a guardian, he wasn't a parent in any of the usual sense of the word, he wasn't even a lover, but he had wanted Haku. And that was something to Harry that was more dependable than even love. Being wanted meant that the jealousies and difficulties that were part of loving did not factor into Haku's relationship with Zabuza.

Even if there had been love, as Harry and Haku hoped, the usefulness of the tool only served to solidify the want of it. That was why the relationship between the tool and its master was a very firm one, and also why, once Haku accepted his flaws as a weapon, he also acknowledge his lack of usefulness. It was that alone that marked him as unworthy and thus his death was inevitable. When a tool is no longer useful, it is discarded, and life without a master did not exist in Haku's mind, nor did it exist in Harry's.

He refused to be flawed again. For the one person who had ever truly wanted him, he would work to be the perfect weapon.

This was why the utter helplessness and vulnerability of these humans fascinated him. He had scoured countless books on the inner workings of their bodies, but had only come across a few entries on the use of chakra, and even those were nothing compared to the prowess of the hidden villages.

So it came as a surprise for Harry to turn the corner and come face to face with a cloaked figure, not much taller than himself.

The man gave an excited squawk and jumped into the air, his glasses falling.

"Amazing, amazing! Such a delightful little muggle!" The man laughed as if he'd just come across the most remarkable spectacle, and Harry was stuck staring at the red and neon green patterns of the stranger's cloak, which was almost rivaling Harry's pants for attention. Harry jumped slightly, when the man bent to pick up his fallen glasses. As the man cleaned the dust from them, he spoke in a jovial voice, "Where are your parents, sweetheart? You know little girls shouldn't run off by themselves."

Narrowing his eyes suspiciously at the man, Harry debated whether or not to answer. He didn't need to wait long. When the glasses were finally back in place, the man turned to Harry and froze. His mouth hung open, his eyes glued to the ever so conspicuous scar on the much hated forehead. An awkward minute of complete inaction ensued as Harry and the cloaked man stared at one another.

Then, with sudden vigor, the man began to bounce in place.

"Oh, what luck! It's an honor, a wonderful honor! Oh, I'm beside myself! Bless your heart, sir, bless your heart!" He exclaimed, all the while pumping Harry's arm enthusiastically.

It took quite a lot of restraint on Harry's part not to break the grip with a well placed pressure point. Being manhandled by complete strangers was really not something Harry was willing to put up with, seven year old body or not. However, there was that instant recognition he saw in the man's eyes upon seeing the scar. Clearly there was more going on with it than he thought.

The treatment from the man continued exuberantly for almost a full ten minutes. Speaking random nonsense, and thanking Harry without clarifying for what; Harry found himself kissed, hugged, and basically molested by this man.

Finally, with wild gesticulations, he bade Harry farewell. But the young boy wasn't going to let him get off the hook that easily. Too busy skipping in his own bliss, the man failed to notice Harry's small figure shuffling close behind him.

Cursing his body's lack of coordination as he rushed to keep from losing the mysterious man, he hurried between pedestrians as the man moved onto busier streets.

When the man finally stepped into a rather shady looking shop, the distance between him and the boy had grown significantly. From his vantage point across the street, Harry could make out the ragged condition of the building and two particularly suspicious looking characters occupying the rusting outdoor table by the entrance. Even more out of place than the shop's broken down appearance in the middle of a thriving city was the fact no one seemed to notice it, their eyes sliding from one neighboring building to the other without so much as one curious glance at the odd building. How could they ignore it?

Even the name was odd. 'Flouncing Broomsticks' was not exactly a subtle shop insignia.

Making sure to loosen his hair and brush most of the front over to cover the scar, he checked the traffic before dashing across the road. From there, it was surprisingly easy to sneak into the shop and mingle. Apparently, whatever the man recognized was only distinguishable by the scar, and without it, he was just like any other little boy… girl. There were a surprising abundance of children in the shop, most of who were gathered by the back exit with their parents, apparently waiting for something. Harry slipped across the room and hurried to the exit, as if to catch up with his guardian.

Along the way, he couldn't help but notice the queer conversations taking place between the shop's patrons.

"The Leaky Cauldron is supposed to be packed this time of year… thought we'd miss the traffic going through here..."

"…Geoffrey's first year… finally getting his wand! We're just so proud!" A woman in a pointed hat and matching robes squealed to another woman, who seemed either confused or drunk, from the way she was dressed. She had on a man's tuxedo top over a pink and black leopard print miniskirt. No one in the shop gave her a second glance.

On second thought, all those present either looked like poster models for a turn of the century costume festival, or as though they were in desperate need of tips from Aunt Petunia's fashion magazines.

Which was all rather fortunate, since Harry's pants must have felt right at home.

Finally forcing his way through the pressing crowd to the back exit, Harry peeked around the edge of the doorway and was stunned by what he saw. Groups of families would line up at what was for all appearances a rickety fence. Then, a designated person from the group would raise a stick of some kind and poke certain knots in the wooden barrier. From there on, all logic of physics was abandoned.

Harry's heart thudded heavily in his chest as he watched the rotting boards of the fence seem to melt into a flexible screen, which peeled away like curtains of a stage to reveal a world beyond, a world Harry was certain would not be there had he merely climbed over the fence. Was this what he was searching for all along? Was there a force in this world that was of equal power to the skills of his past?

Thoughts of all the possibilities tumbled through his mind, and he reeled back into the main lounge of the shop, but before he could gather his thoughts, a somewhat familiar voice rose above the jumble of noise and chatter. Swiftly, he snuck behind a décor table to listen.

"Yes! I'm sure it was Potter!"

A dazzled young woman stared wide-eyed at the man in the neon cloak from Harry's earlier encounter.

"The Boy-Who-Lived?" She asked in an amazed voice.

"Yes! That's what I've been trying to tell you! It was him, and I saw him with my own eyes." He continued, waving his arm about to the small crowd that slowly accumulated as the conversation grew in volume. "Just think, ordinary old me, and I met the savior himself! Why, he was as magnificent as all the stories said. I could just see the gleam fearlessness in those eyes. It was simply amazing, hardly any wonder he defeated You-Know-Who! Now _that _was a hero in the making if there ever was one!"

Harry resisted the urge snort, and he raised an eyebrow in disbelief. What was this man talking about? 'Hero in the making' his fluffy tafty ass! The man had thought he was a girl until he saw that scar.

Although, this was certainly getting interesting. The hyphenated titles were really getting to him, but aside from that, he knew enough about body language to see true fear in these people when they spoke of 'You-Know-Who'. Harry laughed silently at that. He almost felt sorry for the guy. It was just embarrassing for whoever the villain was to be degraded to that.

"Didn't they say that even the Ministry of Magic doesn't know where he is? Isn't that a wonder?" A faceless voice came from the crowd, and murmurs of agreements followed.

Harry jerked in surprise, not quite sure he heard correctly. Did someone actually say Ministry of_ Magic_? But thinking it over, it did make sense that maybe it was just an interpretation of chakra usage. Or maybe it could be real magic. He would need to look more into this. Somehow he felt certain his answers lay beyond the 'magical' fence behind the shop

If he were going to go there, though, he would have to disguise his scar somehow. With a vague plan in mind he made his way out, keeping in the shadows to avoid any more random bouts overzealous greetings.

Arriving back at the parking lot of the grocery, Harry was pleasantly surprised to see Uncle Vernon's car parked there. Checking his watch, he gave a sigh of relief. They still had a little over an hour before Dudley would even think about leaving his sanctuary, and that was just about the amount of time he need.

He strode over and knocked on the window, jerking his uncle wide awake from the little nap. Giving a frustrated grunt when he saw exactly who was bothering his rest time, he rolled down the glass and huffed, "What do you want, boy!" Seeming to remember something, he continued, "And why aren't you with your aunt?"

Harry just gave his uncle his patented peacemaker smile and said, "Uncle Vernon, I want to get a hair-cut."

**Author's Note:** I hoped you enjoyed. You'll be meeting Regulus next time so tune in.

And special thanks to ScathingSarcasm, my beta, for braving my horrid grammar and fixing up my mistakes! Total hearts for you!


	3. Rippling Waters

**Interior of Unknown Cave: 1975**

Maybe it was the cold surrounding him, or slimy, crusted fingers biting into his arms and legs as they gripped seemingly every part of his body, or maybe it was the pulling, the ominous feeling of sinking. Whatever it was, where his mind was once a confused blur of images, a kaleidoscope of horrible memories fleshed together in an incoherent mesh of dreams, now a clear sense of urgency flashed there. He was aware his eyes had been open, but unseeing. Now, as if just waking, he saw clearly the grisly sight of the naked dead bodies floating around him with their unrelenting arms and hands encircling him.

Regulus forced himself to look up. The vague glow the soft light of the night cast on the surface of the lake was dimming by the second as he sunk further and further. Desperate screams for help were stopped by the water and only clouds of bubbles escaped from his opened mouth, mocking him as they floated away to safety.

He was going to die, he realized belatedly. Terror ran through him when the truth hit, almost as horrifying as the inability to breathe.

Had he merely acknowledged the fact that it wasn't the worst possible death, that he had been an aid, however miniscule, to the hopefully inevitable fall of that bastard, Regulus might have been able to let his imminent death play out as it was meant. He wasn't foolish enough to believe he was capable of fighting off a flock of inferi intent on drowning him, and had he merely been the 16-year-old boy he'd always been up until now, he would have let things go.

Fortunately, the remnants from whatever effects Voldemort's potion had on him still tinged the edge of his vision. He had done his research and thought he knew what drinking the concoction would do to him. But these weren't his memories or his nightmares. Oh yes, they were terrifying and at the same time heartbreaking, but they weren't his, at least he didn't think they were.

But that soft voice, speaking the foreign name that he somehow knew referred to him, urged him to live on. He remembered those delicate hands, appearing elegant despite the callous forming around the palms and fingers from repeated weapon handling, the ritual happy but reserved smile that boy saved only for his returns from missions away, and the hair that the alter-ego of him would wait every night just to watch the boy unbind from the familiar bun because it would always fall in the same familiar pattern. Because familiarity was all Zabuza, the cold-blooded killer, had in his life.

_If I could, I would want to go to the same place… on the other side… as you._

That last thought spurred him into action. Haku wasn't here, and he sure as hell wasn't going died without Haku by his side.

Wish magic was a common occurrence among children of the wizarding community, but the phenomenon usually tapered off by the time most children were about eleven or sometimes twelve, and depending on how magically inclined the child was, maybe even thirteen. Anything later and the incidence would be considered a miracle. Apparently, reanimated corpses make for a good motivation in the miracle department. He didn't know what inspired the spontaneous display of magical control that ensued, once he decided he'd rather live, but it was most likely due to the potion induced hallucinations.

Regulus was quite sure he'd never seen a spell which caused water to spike outwards from the caster like an angry icicle porcupine, skewering anything within a ten feet radius. It was a pity he didn't have anymore time to admire his handiwork, but the frozen staffs of ice only managed to buy him some time before the army of corpses not yet turned into shish-kabob were quickly closing in to get a handle on him again.

Kicking hard on the solid objects around him, mostly sticks of ice and inferi, he took off in a burst for the surface, but not without taking some sadistic pleasure at the writhing forms still attached to the ice. He broke the surface and gasped for breath, pushing away a bought of panic when he realized the enchanted boat was long gone to the other side of the cave, the side with the exit, and apparently, the inferi had dragged him pretty much straight down. Which left him practically in the same spot he was before drinking the potion, meaning he would either have to swim his way out or find some other way.

Vaguely, he recalled learning from a particularly macabre-loving relative that inferi had a weakness against fire. Then again, that same relative also failed at casting a cutting spell through her own opened mouth and ended up dying from uncontrollable bleeding in her head five days later. He remembered the gruesome sight of her swollen head and questioned the feasibility of advice coming from that particular family member, but fished around in his cloak for his wand anyway, just in case. It proved fruitless. He must have dropped the damn thing already.

There was no choice left, he had to swim.

Regulus balked at the impossibility of the situation, but the Zabuza mindset was not ready to give in just yet. If he could down a group of bandits and decapitate their leader without even the use of his arms, then he could certainly out-swim a bunch of corpses with a perfectly healthy body. Anything else would be a complete embarrassment, and he wasn't willing to face anymore setbacks, especially after the mess he'd made fighting against the Copy-cat bastard.

Besides, he wasn't known as a demon for no reason.

Again, he crouched up against the rocky walls of the cave and kicked off. It was then that he noticed the slight flaw in his plan. Healthy body, yes; trained and prepared for strenuous activities, no. As he struggled to ignore the screams of his protesting muscles, Regulus recalled all those times he'd sat through lectures on proper conducts expected from his class, unkempt appearance ranked highest in social taboo, which meant rough-housing and other muscle building activities of that category was considered a rare delicacy for children of his circle.

Well, except for his estranged brother. Oh how he wished he'd participated in the tumble plays with Sirius and his friends. But then, his involvement wouldn't have been accepted by either side of his family. His brother sure wasn't open to much involvement with his 'pure blooded bigot' of a little brother, and his mother wouldn't let such a transgression against their House traditions go without punishments. Either way, if he did what he wanted he'd lose, so he might as well win the acceptance of his mother than none at all.

He sure was regretting it now; beating his feet and trying to keep his arms in rhythm with the strokes made him realize how sluggish his movements really were. At the same time, down below he could make out the ghostly gray figures slowly making their way towards him. Adrenaline kicked in, and he got another jumpstart on his flailing limbs.

Considering all the factors piled against him, it was quite a feat to have passed the midway point before the first cold touch of a decomposing hand clamped down on his ankle. Instinct kicked in and he jammed his other foot into the weak joint of the inferi's elbow, simultaneously breaking it; the grip loosened immediately, though more from the disrupted nerves than any real pain.

But he wasn't safe yet. When one foe was dislodged another replaced it, and another, and another. Regulus was surprised how efficiently he was able to execute maneuvers after maneuvers, breaking each of the grasping hands and arms around him, but at the same time he couldn't help feeling frustrated, couldn't help but realized he should be able to do all this faster, so much faster. At the same time, the mob around him was growing thicker, and despite his best efforts he felt himself slowly dragged further and further away from the surface.

"Fucken hell." He thought, "This isn't happening."

He regretted it. Why had he come here? He was sixteen; it wasn't his job to go and take on a freaken Dark Lord. He was fucken sixteen!

So what, another part of him argued. That bastard deserved it, and even in this dire situation he couldn't help but feel a bit smug that for all his planning and ingenious plots, it was a sixteen year old boy who figured it all out. Memories flashed around him again, and he stared at the two opposing set of memories, and the stark contrast peaked at a glaringly clear picture of each: at twelve, Regulus was laughing and waving good-bye to his friends as he got off the express to go home for summer, and again, at twelve, he sat in a bloodied field where the bodies of all his classmates lay scattered around him, blood seeping into the soil from their numerous wounds. Wounds that he'd put there. And he smiled.

Regulus didn't know what this was, an illusion, or something more? He just didn't know

But he did know one thing: he didn't want to die. He really, really didn't.

His lungs burned from lack of air, and the bodies piled up around him. What can he do?

And then it appeared, floating strands of black hair filled his vision, and he turned slightly to stare at the face of the dead girl. So different, but the hair was so familiar in its length.

He stared for a moment, and then the dam broke. The rage that bubbled up was so magnificent in its strength, it all but consumed him. How dare this monster mock him, how dare it mimic beauty it had no rights to imitate. He screamed, not caring at the noiselessness of it, not caring about the water filling his mouth, he just reached forward, ignoring the grips on his arms, grabbed a chunk of the hair, and yanked. The scalp ripped away surprisingly easily.

But he wasn't satisfied. Grabbing the nearest corpse, he bit into it, tore at it, letting go of his mind and giving into his basic killing instinct. The water turned a murky purple as the rotten blood reluctantly oozed into the water from the dismembered limbs.

He didn't know what happened during the haze of anger, but one second the bodies were all he saw, and the next, the world was clear and he was free. Pushing upwards, no longer caring about anything except getting as far from this place as possible, he burst through the surface and broke into a mad swim.

When his head slammed into the wall of rocks, he didn't acknowledge the pain, just the unbearable need to get away. He climbed out of the water, coughing up the water from the lake when he was finally out. As he shivered from the cold air, he stood looking out from the mouth of the cave. In the distance, he could make out the small boat with a little elf rowing away, so far away.

Water dripped from his matted hair, down his face and from his nose.

It took a while for him to realize, some of the droplets were tears.

* * *

**Number 4 Privet Drive, Surrey: 1988**

Harry was amused. For one thing, he'd just realized just how comfortable he'd become in his little cupboard under the stairs. It really should bother him more, considering how well he'd adapted to his new living space. Really, for someone who was used to living off the wild, open-aired forests between the hidden villages, the small, dusty, spider-ridden closet should have been intolerable. However, the contrary proved to be true. He blamed his child's body and mind for the load of sentimentality it dumped on him. He just couldn't stop the growing affections he had for the cupboard. It brought with it a sense of belonging and an unbelievable feeling of safety that embodied everything he was denied in his life as Haku.

He chuckled at the thought. What would Zabuza think if he saw him now, all cuddled up in some godforsaken hole with spiders for company? He absentmindedly stroked one of these critters as he waited for the noise upstairs to stop. He perked up when the muffled voices seems to ease off into silence.

Quickly stifling a laugh when the thundering footsteps thumped their way down the stairs and came to a halt outside his door, Harry unlatched it from the inside and eased the door open as quietly as he could manage and poked his head out.

Even in the darkness of the unlit living room, his uncle still cut quite an impressive silhouette against the blue glow of the walls behind him, which was reflecting the light of the moon. It certainly have gotten late, he realized; it was just a testimony to how long those two have been at it. He peeked shyly up at his uncle through the newly chopped bangs.

"Is she still angry, Uncle Vernon?"

If possible, the stormy expression on the man's face darkened considerably at that enquiry.

"You're lucky I don't throw your sorry carcass out on the streets, boy! Nothing but a heap of trouble. I knew we should have left you at the orphanage..." As abruptly as it began, the tirade ebbed off into wistful mumblings as his uncle seemed to be stuck in some righteous preaching only he could hear. But Harry remained undaunted by the threat leering over him, partly due to the fact that he noticed, despite all the anger, Uncle Vernon still kept the volume moderate, as if to appease to Aunt Petunia's absent presence.

"Do you need help setting up the couch?"

The growl erupted again, this time accompanied by some popping veins and a twitching mustache, but otherwise the man ignored him and lumbered off to the offending sofa, giving it a hard kick for good measure before plopping himself down. All the while, he was grumbling incomprehensibly under his breath about Harry. The boy was only able to catch a few words, most of which went along the lines of, "…don't know what the problem is… stubborn brat… couldn't get anything else cut except the bloody bangs…"

Harry couldn't hold back the laughter anymore and slipped back into the cupboard before he completely lost it. The distant rumbling sounds of his uncle's complaints still droned on through the thin wall of his door. That evening certainly proved to be quite educational in regards to a previously unknown and quite volatile side of his aunt's personality. Apparently she can be a bit of a spitfire when a specific piece of her agenda was changed without her knowledge, especially when that piece was something she was rather adamant about. Uncle Vernon sneaking off with Harry to get the boy a haircut was definitely crossing the line, and basically was something she wasn't willing to tolerate.

Of course, that wasn't the whole truth. Unbeknownst to the men in the family, Aunt Petunia wasn't quite as unhappy about the cut as she made herself appear. The look did cover up that hideous scar, something she approved of greatly. However, the fact that Vernon had not included her in this decision irked her to no small extent and she was more than will to dish out the punishment as she pleased. Poor Vernon, but the man had to learn. Besides, it wasn't something a week on the couch wouldn't fix; she would just have to make sure to make Vernon his favorites for breakfast tomorrow, and he wouldn't make a peep about the situation.

Thus, Petunia went to bed with a blissful sense of satisfaction. All things considered, it was quite a productive day.

Vernon, on the other hand, tossed and turned quite a bit on the too-small couch that groaned under his weight. Stupid brat had to ruin his day. No, make that, ruin his life. Just thinking about it made his mustache bristle. If only the brat hadn't come along, he could be enjoying his normal, peaceful, suburban life. But now, on top of everything else abnormal about the boy, he had to deal with _this_! It made his insides twist with shame just thinking of what the neighbors were thinking. Everyday he woke up, Vernon was faced with the blatant contrast between his strapping young son and that fragile excuse for a boy. Even though he'd only met the Potter man once, he was quite sure that, abnormalities aside, the man was, well, a man! And here was his son. Despite what he thought of his (and he cringed to call them this, even in the privacy of his mind) in-laws, he was quite sure this particular behavior problem would have put their knickers in quite a twist.

Yes, the boy was not particularly… flamboyant (Vernon thanked the gods for that small mercy), and half the time, most of his mannerisms were typical proper male behavior. But then there were_ those_ times. Like the times he worked in the gardens, a task originally meant as punishment, but he'd somehow turned into a pastime; or when he hemmed his clothing, Vernon was past the point of volunteering to buy the boy clothes if only to stop such feminine activities from happening under his roof; of course it was also that suggestion that led to the monstrosity unworthy of being called pants which Petunia bought. Although he was slightly relieved when he saw the boy was equally horrified to see them; he was willing to count his blessings. Worst of all, though, was the way the boy talked. Boys were brash, they were loud, rowdy, and willing to get down and dirty. Harry always spoke softly and politely. And, maybe there was even worst habit yet: the boy smiled. At the worst possible times.

It was that smile that got Vernon into all this trouble. Disarming smile and then a soft request, it was a deadly combination.

No, something had to be done. Hair and clothing aside, Vernon will turn that boy into a proper man if it's the last thing he did. That settled, Vernon closed his eyes at last and succumbed to a restless sleep, his dreams plagued with images of a twenty year old Harry in a dress frolicking down the streets, dragging a screaming Vernon behind him while the neighbors pointed and laughed.

Dudley, fortunately, was blissfully unaware of turmoil raging below; even the shock from earlier, brought on by his mother's excessive use of expletives was completely forgotten in lieu of the dancing blueberry muffins tempting him to eat them. Nothing like a good dream to ward off the stress of the day.

And all the house was quiet at last, the silence only interrupted once in a while with the varying wheezes and thundering nasal congestions of the different occupants' breathing patterns. Toward the late hours of the night, when the symphony of phlegm-filled snores reached its crescendo, that was the time Harry was waiting for. The sounds alone were impossible to sleep through anyway, which was why Harry picked this late hour to get some of his training done. He didn't have to be all that careful about avoiding creaking doors and floorboards, the present noises would cover anything he could make. Still, he quietly made his way out the cupboard, making a quick detour to the living room couch to check on his uncle.

Taking a quick perusal, Harry was able to determine the man was indeed in a deep sleep, but as he turned to leave, again, his uncle threw a wild swing with his arm. It was only Harry's quick reflexes that made him duck before the arm made contact.

"No… Not the frills… No frills… Ballet…" The man mumbled before turning, and once again commenced to snoring the house down.

He stared at Uncle Vernon, and then laughed silently. He could make a guess at just what the man was fussing about. At the same time, he could not help but give a little mental sigh; even though it was quite a lot of fun to see his uncle taken down a peg or two by Aunt Petunia's mini tantrum, things would have been so much easier had the man stayed upstairs like usual.

He made his way out to the backyard and began the usual stretching and breathing exercises, all the while thinking back over the day's events. Questions he'd managed to ignore for most of the day rushed back and assaulted him. How did they know his name? Why did the man lie about what he saw? Then again, maybe he was just delusional, since most of his claims sounded sincere. What was this hero bit they kept going on about? Harry was pretty sure he heard someone mention the word 'savior' at some point. Most of all, how did these strangers seem to know more about him than he did?

He had no way of answering them now, but he sure intended to find out. And the only way was to go back to that run down shop and see what lay beyond that magical fence. Of course, he needed to figure out some minor details before he went gallivanting off to who knows where. Being recognized was completely out of the question. Too many people knew him, but obviously not by face. So long as he kept the scar hidden, things should go well. Actually, on second thought, a little extra precaution wouldn't hurt anyone.

He paused in his exercise to look at the second story window and tilted his head as he debated with himself. Aunt Petunia probably wouldn't mind donating a few materials to his cause, especially when it's unknowingly done.

With the plans vaguely outlined, Harry finished up the warm-ups and stopped for a moment. Then the real practice began. Gone was the gentle demeanor, the soft-spoken, shy-eyed boy, instead a trained killer now flickered across the yard, dancing with deadly maneuvers.

Poor Uncle Vernon, if only he could see the boy now, the man would surely be able to put aside his worry about the child being too 'fragile'. Of course, he would then probably never be able to sleep again for fear of having his throat slit or some other messy death assaulting him while he snoozed.

Perhaps it was better that Uncle Vernon didn't see what went on in the backyard at night. Yes. Definitely better.

**Norrington Grand Hotel, London, 8:00 p.m.**

Erik watched the girl saunter into luxurious room, every now and then she would let out a satisfied, if not impressed, sound, which he supposed was her way of expressing her blessing. Not that he needed it, everything was too perfect not to please her, he knew. The décor was all turn of the century artwork, just like how she liked it. Each bouquet and floral furnishing had exactly fourteen roses, just how she liked. Forget how hard that was to set up; how exactly could one explain another's superstition without looking like a complete idiot, he didn't know. But none of that mattered, because this was _just how she liked it_.

Erik's eye twitched.

But what was she doing? Laughing, of course, delighted when she saw the satin bed-sheets. Not one to deny pleasure when it was presented, she immediately stripped off the thin coat, throwing it on the ground without a second thought, as she flung herself onto the bed, giggling like mad when the bed proved to be just as bouncy as it promised to be.

"Do you like it?" Erik asked. His warm, deep voice seemed to blend into the dimly lit walls, floating gently to caress her. If she had been paying any attention, the sound might have appeared even sinister in the room's lighting.

"Yes!"

_Of course you do, you little whore. _

Making his way slowly across the room, he settled down beside her.

_But such a pretty little thing you are; what am I to do?_

With a smile that masked any and all contempt he might have held for the petite figure now resting her head against his leg, he began to stroke the thick hair back from her eyes. They slid closed to his gentle ministration.

_Just where does this little lamb think she's sleeping so carelessly?_

"Oh, Erik. This is the best anniversary gift, ever." Her breath warmed his inner thigh lusciously when she tilted her head to speak.

Unbidden lust roused him, spurred on by anger and madness, and he gripped the sheet to stop himself from grabbing that little head and shoving it somewhere more pleasurable. He could imagine a much better use for that mouth than talking. With luck, she might even choke and rid him of her incessant, mindless nagging.

Instead he reached over to a box on the bedside table to pick out a chocolate covered strawberry and barely managed to hold back from rolling his eye at her exaggerated gasp.

"Oh, you didn't! _Erik_, you're such a romantic. It's just how I like them!"

_Just how you fucken like them._

He held the little fruit over her lips which match the red almost to the tint. Rather than taking a bite, her little pink tongue slithered out and proceeded to curl over the contours of the chocolate. A slow, careful lick, the tip of her tongue curling again as it came away, looking all that much more like a darling kitty.

Erik petted her head. A much better use indeed for such a talented tongue.

She was so perfect lying there looking up at him with those sensual black eyes, so dark they ate up what little light there was in the room. The lids with the heavy black lashes closed over them and her red lips –

_- Red lips pulled back in a giddy laugh as that other man's hand began to loosen the buttons of her blouse. Her white teeth glinting from her opened mouth just before his lips closed over them, and her pale hand with those long spidery fingers gripped –_

Her fingers gripped his collar and pulled him down to meet her upturned face. The kiss was deep passionate one, and her little breathy moans increased as he held her to him, trying to mesh their bodies together –

- _Their bodies pressed against each other as the pulsing movements swelled in tempo with their rising passion. The harsh breathing and moans of pleasure blended into a wild euphony of sexual energy and from where he stood in the doorway, he too was consumed in that energy. Rage and lust tried to gain control as he watched that woman frolic in bed with another man while he stood still, unable to react to this blasphemy; his knuckled turned white as he grabbed hold the doorframe, imagining instead that it was her white neck._

The white column neck was exposed as she tilted her head back to let him ravish her with his kisses. Of course, he complied, his hand coming up to gently massage the throat as he continued to sprinkle his kisses on it. How small and so frail it was, fitting almost perfectly into his palm. She was perfect, so perfect.

_So why did you have to ruin it, you bitch!_

He bit down on her shoulder, where the strap had fallen. She gave a small squeal and then giggled. Her hand came up to hold his head and guide him to her breasts.

He had to stop them before it got out of hand, before he lost control. Pushing up and away from the tantalizing form beneath him, he smiled down on her.

"Not yet. We still have one more place to go."

"Aw, Erik! It was just getting cozy." She latched onto him as he got them both into something more remotely resembling a sitting position.

"The quicker we leave, the quicker we can get back to this."

"Oh fine, have it your way." She stood and walked to the door.

"Why don't you head down first, there's something I have to get."

She pouted. "You and your surprises."

He held the door open for her and gave her a quick kiss before she headed out. Making sure not to close the door, he sat down on the bed for a breath. It was a pity things had to come to this. A real pity.

With a sigh, he stood and took another route down to the lobby where the love of his life was waiting for her big surprise.

* * *

**The Harriston Apartment Complex, London, 12:10 a.m**

Loyd Hadley was enjoying a very pleasant dream in his REM cycle when the phone rang. He ignored it, or at least tried to. Rolling over, he pressed the sides of his pillow to his ears, hoping that would drown out that grinding high pitched sound. It didn't, but he didn't expect it to. At least the message finally came on.

"This is Loyd Hadley, I can't –"

Whoever that idiot who was calling at bloody midnight was finally hung up and Loyd breathed a sigh of relief. He snuggled in the blankets and prepared to drift away, not without a few mumbled curses about bastards not leaving messages even if they were willing to be up this late. He figured it probably wasn't important and was half asleep when the phone rang again.

Loyd jerked up and kicked his blanket off, cursing all the way from his bed to the phone hanging a couple of feet away. He stumbled over a few nick-knacks on the way and cursed again, this time at himself for not putting on his glasses.

He yanked the phone off its handle and growled into the mouthpiece, "This better be –"

"I need your help." A deep masculine voice came over the line.

"Wha-? Erik? Why the hell are you calling me? Do you know what time it is!"

"Just shut up a minute there. I need help." A chuckle, great, the bastard thought this was funny.

"You know, for someone who needs help, you don't sound all that needy."

"I suppose you'd be an expert in the needy department, right?"

"You know what, I'm hanging up. You can insult me tomorrow after I've had my coffee."

"No! Wait! Come on, I'm sorry, okay? I really do need your help."

Loyd stared at the phone in shock. "Oh my God. What did you do?"

"What?"

"I've known you for years now, and you only said sorry once. And that was when you ran over my snake back in middle school."

"It's nothing like that. Well, not really. I just need you to get rid of something for me."

He felt a headache coming on and rubbed his eyes before finally giving in. Stupid best friend duties. "Oh, alright. What do you need?"

"It's outside your door."

"You came over? How did you even get in the gate? And why didn't you just knock like a normal human being, you bastard!"

"Just figured I'll need you to calm down a bit before I see you again."

"What?"

"You'll see. Just so you know, I trust you, okay? You're my best mate."

"Okay?"

"Just do what you do best; you've always been the calm one."

"What?"

"Bye."

"No! Wait! What?" But the clip of the receiver already answered his protests.

With a sigh, and quite a bit of apprehension, Loyd strode to the door, mentally preparing himself for whatever mess Erik had managed to get him into again. Holding the handle, he ran a hand through his very bad case of bed-head. He figured he should just get it over real quick and yank the door open.

Nothing could prepare him for what toppled in from the door. With a muffled thump, the body fell in and landed face-up on his carpet. Staring up at him was a familiar although purplish-red face. Around the neck wound the girl's own hair, tied into a fatal knot. Her bloated tongue protruded slightly from her opened mouth and the blank look of surprise still marred her features.

Loyd voiced the only possible response.

"Fuck!"

* * *

**London Police Department**

"I'm telling you, sir, she's an adult so there's nothing we can do at the moment. Why don't you call back if she still doesn't come back by tomorrow." The man sitting behind the reception desk droned, again. Why couldn't people ever listen the first time they're told something.

The man on the other line babbled on about his missing girlfriend.

"Yes, I'm sure she's not the type a girl to disappear like this, but I'm telling you there isn't anything we can do."

More babbling, before the man finally gave in, and he gave a silent relieved huff.

"Don't worry, sir, I'm sure she'll show up any time now."

He was finally able to hang up at last.

"Long morning, Jeff?" A uniformed officer walked up to the desk and leaned over for a chat.

"You have no idea."

"What was all that about?"

Jeff sighed and massaged the bridge of his nose. "Some guy wanted to know where his girlfriend is. Anniversary or something like that. If you ask me, he probably just got her the wrong present or something and pissed her off. Sure as hell happens to me all the time. Women aren't anything but trouble."

"Don't let Amy hear you say that or we might be hauling your ass off to the coroner's office one day."

"She isn't going to know as long as you don't breathe a word of this to anybody."

Both men's laughs were cut short when the entrance door rattled open and a familiar figure stepped in. Immediately, they straightened as the man made his way over to them.

Jeff smiled nervously, "'Morning Detective Black."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Hope you all enjoyed the chapter, I actually had a bit of a difficult time writing it and actually, I'm still rather unhappy with it. It's not too much of a cliffy I don't think.

Next time: Harry goes on a little trip.

Special thanks goes to Emerald Falls for taking up the fight against my horrible grammar. My condolences goes to my previous beta, ScathingSarcasm, who had a mishap but from what I've heard, is now on the recovery. Best of luck to ya!

DeppleICk: Haha! Thank you for the lovely notices. I actually didn't get to see the first notice until you mentioned it. My internet spazzed on me a little earlier. But thanks for the motivation!

Also thanks for the comments! They're the chocolate to my strawberry! So... Until next time!


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